


21

by Thea_Bromine



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Spanked Spike Ficathon, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the <a href="http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/331911.html#comments"><i>Spanked Spike Ficathon</i></a>.</p><p>Spike should have remembered that Rupert was once Ripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	21

He was bored.

He was bored, bored, bored, bored, bored.

He was stuck in the Watcher’s little flat, with no company except the bloody Watcher and occasionally the even more bloody Slayer and the Slayer’s bloody little friends, and none of them was what he would have called a conversationalist.

Well, the Watcher could have been, but the Watcher didn’t _like_ him (like he cared) and wasn’t putting himself out any to be chatty. Or even friendly. Or particularly hospitable. They’d had words about Spike drinking his Scotch, and words about bloodstains in the microwave and... actually, there wasn’t much they _hadn't_ had words about. Pretty much any time Spike opened his mouth, he and the Watcher ended up having words.

Well, that wasn’t as completely accidental as it might have been. It was _fun_ winding up the Watcher. He made that weird sound when he was exasperated – even the children had noticed that – and he was exasperated by so _many_ things. It was fun trying to think of a new way to set him off every day. But now Spike had run out of ideas and he was bored. He’d made half a dozen remarks and the Watcher had ignored all of them; Spike reckoned he’d worked out that Spike was setting him off on purpose, because the man, however boring and old school he was, wasn’t an idiot. You didn’t get to be... well, you _did_ get to be a Watcher if you were an idiot; that Pryce plonker was an idiot and Spike had met several Watchers over the years who were nearer to idiocy than not, but well, most of them could see further through a brick wall than average when they actually applied themselves. And this one, probably because he’d had to leave the Home Counties, had some ideas of his own and was capable of looking and seeing as well as Watching. Yeah, he was onto Spike, and he wasn’t playing any more.

And Spike was bored.

“Come on, Watcher,” he whined; “put down the books for once and... can’t we _do_ something?”

“No.”

It was flat.

“Bloody boring wanker,” he muttered provocatively. “All books and artefacts. Take a night off, Watcher. Have a drink. Do _something._ ”

The Watcher turned a page. “I _am_ doing something. I’m working.”

Spike snarled. “Yeah, but I’m not. Come _on_ , Watcher.”

“If you have nothing more productive to do, you could clean the bathroom. Or, or the kitchen.” The Watcher’s head didn’t even lift from what he was doing;  Spike snarled again until he caught the smallest imaginable twitch at the corner of the Watcher’s mouth. Hell, the man was... oh, he _was_ onto Spike, and he was playing Spike at his own game.

“Point to you,” he said moodily. “Aw, come...”

“Spike, I am _working_. I, I realise that this is a concept strange to you, but it’s one you’ll have to get accustomed to. If you don’t feel like doing anything productive yourself,” and he flailed for a moment, and then hoicked in the drawer of his desk, flipping something in Spike’s direction.

“A pack of cards?”

“Play bloody Patience, Spike. Just do it quietly.”

“Patience? Do I look like a Patience player, Watcher?”

That tiny twitch at the mouth again.

“Waaaaaatcher!”

He got somewhere. The Watcher sighed, slammed his book shut and turned.

“What do you _want_ , Spike? I’m not your mother; it’s not my job to keep you entertained.” He considered, theatrically. “And actually, I can remember my mother being less than sympathetic when I complained that I was bored. She, she said that only boring people were ever bored.”

“An’ that’s why you suggested cleaning the bathroom?”

Tiny twitch again. “Well, it was my mother’s fallback position. That and, and mowing the lawn.”

Spike flicked the little cardboard box from hand to hand. “Not Patience but... oh, come _on_ , Watcher. Poker?”

The Watcher shook his head. “Never cared about it. My family were Bridge players.”

“Bloody snobs. Can’t play Bridge with only two of us.”

“Canasta, if you know the variations for two.”

Oh, thank the various Gods, the Watcher was alive, coming over to sit opposite him. Interaction, even if it _was_ only over a pack of sodding cards.

“Don’t know Canasta. Blackjack?”

“Vingt-et-un? Yes – if we can agree on rules.”

That took them five minutes – in which the Watcher, surprise, loosened his tie. Didn’t take his jacket off, but it was a start. Human after all. Worth another little push.

“An’ a drink?”

He got a glower for that – but he also got a Scotch. Good Scotch too.

Forty minutes, and the Watcher brought the bottle over when he poured refills. Not as starchy as he made out, was he? Good card player too: took enough risks to make the game interesting. Not afraid to gamble.

Spike wondered about that through another two hands.

“What about a little bet, Watcher?”

The man actually rolled his eyes like the sodding kids. “What sort of a bet?”

He grinned. “Oh, not money. Don’t need much money. Certainly don’t need yours.”

Another eyeroll. “Well, hoo-bloody-ray and in that case, the next bottle of Scotch can come out of your wallet, not mine. So what are you betting?”

“Play for an hour – or set a number of hands, don’t care. Not money: forfeits.”

The Watcher raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Do go on.”

“You – ah – you deal from both ends of the deck, doncha?”

He heard the thump of the Watcher’s heart, smelt the adrenaline on him.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

He sniggered. “Come on, Watcher, it’s not a secret. Not from me, at least. You swing both ways. Hasn’t always been a bird in yer bed, has it? Been a bloke, a time or two.”

The man was staring at him, eyes narrowed. “It takes one to know one, Spike.”

“Never said it didn’t. But... O.K. I win, and you blow me. Properly, mind. Say,” and he cocked his head and looked at the cards and sniggered, “twenty-one minutes. That’s a proper forfeit for the game.”

And he wouldn’t bother to remind the Watcher that Spike could hear his heartbeat, could hear it speed and slow. Could read the cards in his hand from the way his pulse responded to the gamble. If the man didn’t remember that all by himself, it wasn’t Spike’s job to remind him. In fact, it wouldn’t hurt to distract him a little. “Could just fancy that, you know, Watcher. Yer not a bad lookin’ bloke, an’ I reckon you’d look even better on yer knees, with yer eyes shut and yer mouth open.”

“Well, thank you for the compliment,” observed the Watcher dryly. “And if _I_ win?”

Not gonna happen, but... “If you win, twenty-one minutes but the one on his knees is me.”

A slow shake of the head. “I think not. I don’t like you, Spike. I don’t trust you. I’m certainly not putting anything I value within range of your fangs, chip or no chip.”

“Well, you think of somethin’ then.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then an evil smile crept across the Watcher’s face. “You’re an irritating creature, aren’t you? Your manners are horrible, and they could do with improvement. If I win, you get a spanking.”

O.K., he hadn't believed that the Watcher could startle him, but he’d done it.

“What?”

“A spanking, Spike. Twenty-one minutes, as you suggested.” The man smirked at Spike’s surprise. “You’re not a bad looking bloke,” he mocked, “and I reckon you’d look even better, bare-arsed over my knee and howling.”

He was affronted. “ _Howling?_ ”

The man had the sheer brass neck to grin at him. “Well, you could hardly expect me to hurt my hand on your skinny arse, could you? There’s a clothes brush in the desk, a wooden one. You’ll howl.”

“In yer dreams, Watcher. In yer dreams.”

“If I win.”

“Have we got a deal, then?”

“Deal. Twenty-one minutes either way.” He pushed the cards across the low table. “Shuffle. I’ll get a notepad to keep score. An hour’s play, you said.”

Yeah. An hour. At twenty minutes, Spike was slightly ahead. The Watcher hadn't changed his style at all; Spike was listening to his heartbeat (which was dead steady) and scenting the air for adrenaline and sweat. Just enough edge to keep him a little ahead.

At forty minutes, he was a little further ahead, enough that he’d begun to picture the Watcher on his knees. The Watcher’s pulse had sped up, just a tiny bit, and he was feeling the thrill, Spike could tell. Looked like the man might be picturing _himself_ on his knees. He was controlling it well, but Spike could hear it.

At fifty-two minutes, they were dead level, and the Watcher was dealing.

At fifty-five minutes, Spike was looking at the cards the Watcher had just laid down, and thinking that luck was a funny thing.

At sixty minutes...

“And that one’s mine as well. Excuse me for just a minute. Feel free to take something off while you’re waiting.”

The bathroom door closed with a click, and Spike looked at the cards laid on the coffee table. Then he turned the Watcher’s notebook round, and carefully redid the arithmetic.

“Not ready?” The Watcher came back, opened the desk and removed – he hadn't been lying then, he had a wooden-backed clothes brush. A big one. He set it down beside the notepad, and grinned wolfishly at Spike. Why... why had Spike never noticed just how evil the man looked? Spike had been around, he’d hung out with Big Bads, and somehow... somehow the Watcher suddenly didn’t look at all Chelsea and Knightsbridge and dear old chap. Suddenly he looked like a Big Bad himself, Bermondsey, or, or some of the rougher estates. He was slipping his jacket off, and rolling up his sleeves, and Spike could picture him in his own kind of clobber, denim and leather and eight-hole DMs rather than tweed and pinstripes and Church’s shoes.

“Are you bottling it, Spike?”

Oh _hell_ no. No, he had no problem with twisting the rules to suit himself; he had no problem with conning the Watcher; he had a _big_ problem with the Watcher thinking that Spike hadn't got the balls to follow through. He bounced to his feet and started to unfasten his belt.

“Twenty-one minutes; you might as well take them right off. I expect you’ll kick, and they’ll only flap round your knees.”

Thanks very much; he unfastened his boots, and kicked his jeans off, and then glared defiantly at the Watcher, who had the nerve to smile gently at him, and pat his lap. He didn’t need the oxygen, but habit was a strange thing: it took two deep breaths to get him over the floor to the man, and another to get him to turn, without waiting for the order, and lay himself across the Watcher’s lap.

It felt like about an hour before the calm, polite voice above him said, “Spike? I believe you’ve forgotten that I’m left-handed.”

Yeah, he bloody had, and he felt like a total ticket, getting up and turning round. The Watcher leaned over him, and... and put down his bloody _watch_ , put down his watch on the cushion under Spike’s nose.

“That’s convenient: we’ll start at the top of the minute and twenty-one minutes will be dead on half past. You’ll keep an eye on that, won’t you?” It was courteously expressed and he found himself nodding mutely; he jumped as a large warm hand settled itself firmly on his backside. Seemed like the Watcher was starting bare-handed. Suck it up, Spike – the man couldn’t do any real harm and...

_“Fuck!”_

What was with the ‘no real harm’?

“Been a while, has it?” The bloody man was _amused_! “That was just to get your attention. Don’t worry, I’ve done this before, even if you haven’t. I’m not going to go at you non-stop for twenty minutes.”

But after five, Spike wished he was. If the bloody Watcher had just set up a rhythm, so that he could have counted it off, then he could have dislocated his mind and just ridden the pain. As it was... as it was, sometimes it was that sodding brush and sometimes it was his hand, sometimes it was hefty wallops and sometimes it was light stinging slaps, and he was squirming like a bloody _eel_ on the Watcher’s lap, jaw clenched because he wasn’t going to howl no matter what the bastard thought. He wasn’t. He was _not_.

Only when he squirmed – and it didn’t seem that there was any alternative to squirming – he was rubbing himself on the Watcher’s thigh. And the Watcher was wearing tweed and it was just a little rough, just enough to set up friction against his cock, just enough to get him hard and hot and _wanting_ , not enough to tip him over, and the bloody man _knew_ , he knew, he hooked a hand under Spike’s hip and shifted him, spread his thighs so that Spike’s cock bounced between them, just touching and tickling and not half e-bloody-nough to get him off.

And then he picked up the brush again, the bastard, and this time he really _was_ putting his back into it, and Spike bounced and felt the howl build up behind his teeth, and however hard he swallowed he couldn’t get it down, and he didn’t know if it was pain or shame or shock or lust or all of them at once. His arse was scalded – if he didn’t have blisters he would be sodding surprised – and his cock was screaming for attention even if that attention was only friction burns from the Watcher’s fucking _tweeds_ and...

“One minute, Spike.” It sounded – hell, it sounded approving, almost. He blinked at the watch. It was actually a bit more than a minute...

“We can fit in a dozen more if I time them right. Five second intervals. Count them down, please.”

He made a strangled sound of enquiry, and the Watcher huffed. “Like this: five – four – three – two” and instead of “one” there was a ferocious impact of wood on arse, and Spike bucked and yes, his voice broke on a howl.

“Again. Three – two” and _crack_ and he howled again.

“Count, Spike.” It was implacable, and he blinked tears away, stared at the watch, flinched at the blow he hadn’t counted, and gathered himself. He wasn’t going to lose _that_ much face in front of the Watcher. The second hand jumped.

“Three,” he said unsteadily. “Two,” and winced, yelping. “Four! Three – two!” and another howl.

Scientifically, it was one minute. Twelve impacts of that evil, _evil_ brush on his arse.

It lasted a lifetime.

A human lifetime, fortunately; it ended, and he found himself panting and whimpering, still inclined to squirm, _wanting_ and desperate and very, very surprised. Too desperate to object when the Watcher half lifted him, twisted to lie the length of the sofa and pulled him down on top, still wriggling. He wasn’t sure whose hand it had been that unfastened the man’s fly and tugged the tweed open; all he knew was that the blessed touch of skin on skin, of one hard, leaking cock against another, made him howl again, this time with frantic need.

* * * * *

The flat was full of bloody children again and there was nowhere to sit, not that he felt any particular desire to sit anyway. He’d been right about the blisters. Harris picked up the cards, and looked at Spike, with an oddly amused air.

“Please tell me you’ve been playing Solitaire?”

He sniffed dismissively. “Watcher and I were playing Blackjack earlier.”

The look of amusement deepened. “And how was that working for you, Bleachboy?”

“Worked very well for _me_ , thank you, Xander,” said the Watcher, who also seemed to find it funnier than Spike thought was warranted. The witch’s eyes were wide.

“Oh no, Spike, you haven’t been playing cards with Giles, have you? Really?” Even she looked inclined to giggle and the bloody Slayer was sniggering outright.

“Has he got you cross-referencing, Spike?”

He stared at her blankly; she condescended – he hated bloody Slayers – to explain. “Xander used to bring a deck of cards to the library on Oz’s nights, and we all played. Giles bet us the pizza money against the cross-referencing. He took seventeen _hours_ of cross-referencing off us before Willow worked out that he was dealing one from the top, one from the bottom and one from up his sleeve.”

“I don’t know _what_ you mean,” said the Watcher, all wounded innocence. “I’m a respectable Watcher; I wouldn’t cheat at cards.”

“Of course not,” agreed the witch, grinning at him, “Giles would _never_ do such a thing.”

Harris snorted and rolled his eyes. “No, Giles wouldn’t do that.”

He smirked at Spike. “But Ripper would.”


End file.
